University Days
by wannabeewriter
Summary: An AU in which Sherlock and John meet at university and are roommates. Probably just friendship, potentially Johnlock later, not sure yet. Please rate and review! This is my first fan fiction ever!


The boy stared out the window, lost in thought, his long fingers drumming on the sill absentmindedly, but in rhythm with the rain pouring down on the other side of the glass. Behind him, the small dorm room was a wreck - well, at least to the untrained eye. Really it was an organized chaos of chemistry and biology experiments. One single bed against the wall was clear of detritus and made up in clean sheets and a dark plaid duvet. The bed against the opposite wall was a different story. Vials of various coloured solutions pilfered from the Chemistry Club lay among the ridges of the bare mattress, along with chips of what appeared to be fingernails and bone fragment that had escaped from the baggie thrown there and forgotten.

Accompanying the layer of dust atop the mini-fridge in the equally mini-kitchenette, was a glass dish of eyeballs, potentially human, a glass jar with an unidentified body part, bloated and floating in a pale amber liquid, and multiple crumpled memos and used plasters. The small counter was crowded with crusty mugs and dishes, and one well-loved microscope that was impeccably clean. Stacks of papers and boxes of books lined all the walls and were stacked on the toilet tank in the tiny bathroom.

There was a noise at the door - something being fumbled, a muffled curse, then a key in the lock. The curly-haired boy at the window turned in time to see the door creak open, and someone half drag, half kick a damp duffle bag across the threshold, while juggling a rucksack, a canvas Tesco bag, and the welcome folder given to each student that bothered reporting to orientation.

Warm blue eyes clashed with steely grey ones as the boys sized each other up. Blue eyes shifted first, quickly glancing around the room, noting each area of disaster, filling with concern and confusion, and not-so-surreptitiously double-checking the room assignment on the front of his folder. Yup, dorm block B, floor 2, room 21.

The boy looked back up from his folder, took a deep breath and a large step over his duffle bag, and extended his hand, a warm but tentative smile stretching across his tanned face. "Hi, I'm John Watson. I guess I'm your new roomie!"

"There must be a mistake."

John's smile and hand drop simultaneously at the unfriendly sound of dark-haired boy's voice. "Er, what do you mean? I was told down in orientation that this was my room. See, it says right here." John tried to push his folder toward the boy so he could read and confirm for himself, but the teen twisted around back to the window, started frantically texting on the mobile he'd pulled from his pocket, and completely ignored him. John let out a soft whistle and finally said, "Well, what do I call you, anyway?"

There was a long silence and John let himself take in the details of the boy in front of him. Slim, almost skinny. Narrow shoulders and hips. Long fingers, long neck. A mass of dark, glossy curls. He was wearing dark designer jeans, and a charcoal hoodie. He couldn't see his face anymore, but he recalled the pale skin, flinty grey eyes, the bow-shaped lips, the pinched, almost gaunt cheeks, and sharp chin and cheekbones. Finally, the deep voice interrupted his inspection. "Not that it matters, since other arrangements will be made for your rooming situation, but it's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

John's sandy eyebrows skyrocketed to somewhere around his hairline and he took a deep breath. "Well, nice to meet you, Sherlock. Is this my bed? I hope you don't mind if I put up some posters or something over here." He picked his way across the room, easily chit-chatting to himself, since Sherlock seemed to have no interest in responding to the inane chatter. John did catch him looking out of the corner of his eye at one point, when he'd dragged his Tesco bag over to the kitchenette and started unloading its contents into the fridge and cupboard. Well, _looking_ was putting it mildly. John had the distinct, uneasy feeling that Sherlock was judging and finding him wanting.

"Did you not understand me?" This sneering question came as John was picking each vial off the empty bed and arranging them by colour on Sherlock's small lamp stand. John looked up from switching a blue vial with an indigo one. Sherlock was facing him again, and his gaze seemed to bore into John's face. "I said," Sherlock continued, emphasising each word as though he were talking to a particularly stupid 4-year old, "you will not be staying here. This room assignment was a mistake; one I expect to see rectified shortly."

John blinked at the stilted, professional words and opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a chiming sound. Sherlock fished out his mobile and quickly scanned the text. His frown deepened. He looked up again, grey eyes flashing angrily. "Fine. The situation cannot be remedied. I suppose we'll just have to make the best of things."

John smiled tentatively and ventured a "What's the story? Did you have another roommate that was supposed to live here?"

"No. I'd requested that I live alone, and Mycroft was supposed to arrange it. Apparently, in this situation, his power does not reach."

"Why would you want to live alone? And who's Mycroft?"John's brow furrowed and his button nose wrinkled cutely.

"People tend to find me rude and off-putting, and I find them dull and repulsive. I just get on better by myself. And Mycroft is my annoying older brother, and basically the British government."

John almost wanted to laugh at the way Sherlock's face screwed up into a pout on his last sentence, but he refrained. Probably not the best way to get this strange kid to play nice.

"So," Sherlock continued, giving John a once-over, "where's your dad posted? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I...uh, what? How'd you know that?" John managed to stutter.

"Your dad. He's in the military, no? Is he posted in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Uh, Afghanistan...but how'd you know that?"

"Oh, I know lots of things about you, John. Like how your family has two dogs and a cat. And that you live in the countryside outside of London. And that you have an older brother...no, wait, make that a sister, who you don't get along with, maybe because she doesn't get along with your parents and threatens to upset the peace of the household. Oh, and because she walked out on your family recently and you haven't heard from her since. You get good grades in school, mostly through hard work, and not because of natural ability. You're...pre-med, and are considering enlisting."

John was stunned and it took him a full minute of blinking owlishly at Sherlock before he could form a coherent thought. "How could you possibly know all that? Were you guessing? Or did you do research on me, or something?"

"John, really, be reasonable. How could I be guessing and getting all of that right? And I didn't even know you were going to be rooming with me, so how could I have researched you? No, I observed it. I could tell by looking at you."

"What? How?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and there was a gleam of pleasure in his eyes as he launched into his explanation. "Well, I could tell your family was military by the way you hold yourself, the precise way you arranged your things, and how your clothing is folded. I knew it was your dad, rather than your mom that was in the army, because you're wearing a man's coat that is too big for you - a way for you to remember your father when he's gone, plus, if he left his coat he's gone somewhere warm. Afghanistan or Iraq. Living in the country - not hard at all, your accent gave it away. You have hairs from two different types of dog and one cat on your trouser legs, and at varying heights. If given the time, I could probably also tell you the breed and age of the pets. You are wearing worn, hand-me-down clothes that I originally thought to be from your brother, but your shirt is cut just slightly femininely, and its stretching indicates a previous female wearer, rather than male. I know that she left and you miss her, but that you don't get along, because you put her picture in your wallet, rather than on your lamp stand, and then compulsively checked your mobile for a text. It could have been a girlfriend, except you resemble her too much - there's no mistaking that hair and the eyes. The grades weren't that hard to figure out - you have one recognition of achievement award that you hung on the wall - you're proud of it because it required a lot of work, or you wouldn't have displayed it, and there's only one, so not natural ability then." Sherlock finally stopped his diatribe, and began to look a bit cornered, cowering just ever-so-slightly, as if he expected to be yelled at.

John swallowed dryly, and rasped out, "And pre-med? And enlisting?"

"Oh, " said Sherlock, grinning, and giving John a this-was-too-easy look, "I saw your text books and the RAMC (Royal Army Medical Corps) pamphlet in your rucksack." His cornered look returned, and he twisted towards his side of the room.

There was a long, expectant pause, then John blurted, "That was amazing."

Sherlock's eyes shifted until he could just see John in his peripheral vision. "Really?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, it was bloody brilliant!" John's voice was filled with frank admiration.

"That's not people usually say," Sherlock uttered quietly.

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

John grinned heartily at Sherlock's back, and could just see an answering twitch at the corner of Sherlock's lips. John flopped backwards onto his unmade bed, the remaining fingernail fragments and vials landing on the floor, and tucked his hands behind his head. "Man, this is going to be awesome being roommates! Just you wait!"

Sherlock adjusted a stack of papers quietly and made no verbal response.


End file.
